


Disaster Area

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Times, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 10:11:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/797192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The evils of Kleenex shreds, Jim, Blair, stuff like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disaster Area

## Disaster Area

#### by Aouda Fogg

  
Not mine. Not making money, intending infringement, or any other bad stuff. Just playing.   
Originally written for Sentinel Thursday's Challenge #105: Under the weather  
  


* * *

I probably _should_ have known. I mean, I was the one who had been up-close-and-personal with the drifts of tissues that marked any location he spent more than two minutes lately. I was the one who was now thoroughly acquainted with the loud, lingering honk his nose could create. 

I didn't really care, however, as I stalked into the loft. 

"Sandburg!" 

His head popped up from behind the back of the couch where he had been drowsing. "Don't have to yell. I'm right here, man." The rasp in his voice deepened the tone and made it crack a bit, but this wasn't a time for leniency or mercy. 

I dropped the pile of laundry on his lap. And was then really confused when he smiled at me. 

"Thanks, big guy! I love the way laundry feels right out of the dryer, all nice and warm." 

"How nice for you. However, I dropped them on you, observer extraordinaire, so you could see the disaster area you've made of my damned slacks." 

Frowning, probably at my tone, he glanced down, and a moment later, I could see comprehension dawning. 

"Oh, shit. You mean --" 

"Yes. I mean. On all of my black slacks. Slacks I need to wear to court tomorrow. Slacks that would go much further saying to the jury that I'm a serious, responsible detective who is telling the truth and so they should lock this scum up if they didn't have little bits of _Kleenex_ all over them!" This wasn't the first time this had happened, or even the 2nd time a tissue left in his pockets had exploded all over a load of clothes, and I was pissed. 

"Oh, jeez, Jim, I'm so sorry. I'll clean them up, really; a little attention with some tape and they'll be good as new." 

"Damned straight." 

He cocked an eyebrow at my tone, but again, I didn't care, so I ignored the look and watched as he unearthed himself from the burrow he'd created on the couch, retrieved some masking tape from the junk drawer, and got to work. For my part, I picked up the sports section and, with the righteous indignation of the wronged, left him to make tape loops on his fingers and go over every single square inch of my pants to pick up the white filaments and fragments. After a while, the rhythmic ssshick, ssshick of the tape pulling away from the cloth was oddly soothing, really. 

I'd made it all the way back to the high school scores section when he asked a question. 

"Wait a minute; why is my robe in this load?" 

I dropped the paper to see that he'd finished with my pants and was holding his robe up in confusion. "What?" 

"Why is my robe in the load?" 

Soothing noises or not, I was still really annoyed at his thoughtless, so I went for sarcasm. "Because it needed to be washed?" 

"Uh, uh, man. I washed it the other day after my fever broke." 

I waved a dismissive hand. "It looked like it needed to be washed, and I needed a little more for the load, so I grabbed it from the hook--" And trailed off. Shit. 

"Not off the floor?" 

"No, the hook--" 

"Not from the hamper?" 

His false innocence and leading questions were very effective; I dropped my chin to my chest in defeat, knowing where he was going, and knew what I had to do. "Nope, I grabbed it off the hook. You're right; you hadn't put it in the laundry. I should've checked the pockets." 

He crossed his arms and grinned. "Glad you see it my way, Jim." 

"Uh, sorry I blamed it on you." At least I had the balls to look at him when I apologized. 

"Eh, not a totally unwarranted assumption, man," he shrugged. "Besides, it was just the kind of brainless activity that was perfect for the way I feel." 

His easy acceptance of my apology rocked me back. How did he do that? How did he manage to be so easy-going and accepting so often? I mean, there was just a hint of smugness in his smile, but even that was . . . friendly, like he was inviting me to share the joke, but he wasn't holding me being an ass over my head or making me grovel. I felt another one of those ever-more-frequent rushes of affection for him that had been happening a lot lately, and, as usual, I did my best to ignore it and its implications. Maybe someday I'll ask how he managed to be so damned . . . nice. For the moment, though, I decided to distract myself from such heavy thoughts. "Want some tea?" 

I could tell he knew I was still trying to make amends from the way he smiled when he accepted, but I appreciated the fact that he just said a simple, "Yeah, thanks, that'd be great." 

A few hours later I left him dozing on the couch and ran to the store to get food for the week. I was heading towards the checkout islands when I realized I'd forgotten soy sauce, so I zigged back up the housewares aisle to avoid the crowds. I was busy mentally thanking Sandburg for everything he'd taught me about controlling my senses as I passed the brightly colored -- and overwhelmingly scented -- laundry detergent displays, when I walked by a peg full of lint rollers. Smiling, I grabbed one, thinking it would make a great follow up to my apology, and that it would make clean ups like this a hell of a lot easier next time -- because I wasn't going to hold my breath that there _wouldn't_ be a next time. He'd try hard to remember, but for someone who went as many different directions all at once as he did, he'd probably leave another tissue in another pocket sooner or later. I distracted myself from the niggling little fact that that made me want to roll my eyes more than gnash my teeth. 

He laughed when I handed it to him along with another cup of tea. "Good idea, Jim. You never know when a rogue tissue might get passed the dragnet." Exactly. 

A couple of minutes later, I caught him staring down at the roller thing with a weird expression on his face. 

"Something wrong?" 

"Nah. Just thinking." 

Then he paused, just looking at me, and I could see him come to some kind of decision. 

"Jim, you know we're friends." 

I blinked, immediately worried. Was he going to tell me what an asshole I'd been? Not that I didn't deserve it. He wasn't going to move out, was he? Not that I didn't deserve that, either. I took the cautious approach. "Yes. I know we are friends." 

"Ok, good. Because, you know, man, you don't have to, like, _buy_ my forgiveness; you know that, right?" He gestured idly, waving the roller with his hand. 

"I, uh. . ." An image of Caroline, standing next to the bed, her arms crossed, insanely pissed one morning, flashed in my memory. And then I remembered the look of almost condescending pleasure -- like I'd performed just like I was supposed to -- when I'd come home that night with flowers and take-out from her favorite restaurant. Buying his forgiveness. No, I realized, that was something I'd never had to do with Blair. "Right, Chief," I answered quietly. "I know I don't have to buy anything from you." 

His smile lit up the room and my insides, because for the first time I really, really understood. I didn't have to buy his forgiveness or his friendship or his company, because it was already there for me, freely given with an openness and generosity that humbled me. 

Suddenly, I wanted to give him back a gift of equal importance. I wanted to meet him half-way, not hide here, afraid, anymore. This was right. This was him; it was me. "And you know I love you, right?" 

His smile grew even brighter, as did his eyes. "I, I, didn't know, I _hoped._ " 

Stepping closer to him, I met his gaze squarely and openly. "Know." 

"I know." 

"Good." And the next moment, he was in my arms, hugging me as tightly as I was hugging him. The happy rush in my ears still let me hear him whispering he loved me against my chest. 

And then he sneezed. I offered him a tissue. He let go of me long enough to blow into it -- with his trademark honk -- and then he very carefully tossed it into the trashcan a couple of feet away from us. I grinned and pulled us down on the couch, covering us with his robe, which was still dotted with shredded tissue, and you know, I didn't even care. 

* * *

End Disaster Area by Aouda Fogg: aoudafogg@yahoo.com  
Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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